


Real BFFs Fight Russians Together

by Buchanan



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Comic Clint, Humor, MCU clint is inferior, Oneshot, Or My Attempt at Humor, Violence, hotdogs, lots of swearing, tracksuit draculas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:22:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buchanan/pseuds/Buchanan
Summary: Wade Wilson and Clint Barton take on the Tracksuit Draculas.





	Real BFFs Fight Russians Together

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s an old one-shot I wrote a while back. It isn’t too perfect, but I may as well share it, since it was collecting dust. 
> 
> Enjoy 🦀🦀

“The ‘Tracksuit Draculas’? What kind of goofy fucking name is that?” Wade Wilson snorted, a street hotdog in hand. Mustard spilled over the side of the bun, splattering onto the street below him.   


The streets were damp from the earlier rains, thus reflecting a dazzling sheen provided by the illuminating stars and the moon above. In fact, those two constituents were what provided enough light for Clint Barton and Wade Wilson to navigate the streets of New York at such a late hour.   


With a drawled yawn and a quick stretch of his arms, which gave of a couple of pops (caused by the lack of mobility or gradual aging), Clint shrugged and shoved his hands into the pockets of loose-fitting pants. “Well, y’know, they wear tracksuits...and they only come out at night. Tracksuit Draculas.”   


“Makes sense.”

The two proceeded to walk in silence, the only audible thing being the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the subtle chirp of crickets ringing through the night sky, thus making it easy to discern any new, sudden sounds coming from a distance.   


“Pause,” said Wade, stopping in his tracks and putting up his free hand. Clint stopped soon thereafter, unintentionally bumping into Wade and prompting the man to drop his hot dog. With a contemptuous frown hidden behind his red mask, Wade spoke again (albeit in a rather displeased tone). “Why does it sound like we’re in a banya filled ass-deep with angry Russians?”   


Deadpool was right; reverberating throughout the streets of New York were the sounds of feet hitting the ground and the angry shouting of unknown Russian words. As the sounds got closer, the sight of a group of irate men became clearer.   


“Step back, Wade,” Clint warned, withdrawing his bow and swiftly nocking an arrow to it. “They probably have weapons.”   


“You see, the difference between me and you is that _my_ bullet wounds heal,” Wade stated pragmatically, internally pondering whether or not it was too late to pick up his hot dog off of the side of the street and enjoy the remainder of his meal.   


“Bro! It’s him!” yelled one of the approaching men, pawing at something in his pocket before completely extracting the small, circular object.   


Clink. Clack.   


“Grenade!” shouted Clint, whose voice was deadened by a loud blast.   


The deafening sound of an explosion rippled throughout the street as searing heat proliferated in all directions. Clint managed to dive away in time, though the impact of his body hitting the ground forced the oxygen out of his lungs, leaving him gasping for air as he lay encompassed by the pulsating heat. Caught in the middle of the fiery detonation, however, was Wade, who was meaninglessly shielding his face with his arms as he attempted to crawl away from the direct center of the explosion. What followed from his mouth was a paroxysm of raspy coughs, preventing him from making any poorly-timed quips in such an alarming situation.   


Just kidding.   


“Holy shit, Katniss! You never told me you invited the commies! Seriously, you really gotta work on your friend roster.”

Flames disintegrated wide patches of Wade’s suit as the flames licked at his exposed skin, blistering the flesh even more so than it was prior to the entire ordeal. The archer slowly teetered to his feet and helplessly watched, unable to do anything about the writhing man currently circumscribed by a roaring fire and thick smoke.   


“Clint!” Wade shouted hastily above the crackling of the flames and commotion of oncoming pursuers. “Your hearing aid! Take it out!” Deadpool sluggishly staggered to his feet, trying to pat the flames off of his body (to little avail). With an inquisitive glance, Clint hesitantly reached up to remove the device from his ear, hoping that Wade’s order was one that’d somehow assist them in the situation.   


Everything went utterly silent, thus altering Clint’s connection to the situation; he now relied on sight and touch alone to give him a sense of direction, as the only thing audible was a subtly shrill ringing in both ears. 

“Fuck!” gargled the mercenary, unbeknownst to Clint, who now gently gripped the hearing aid in his gloved hand with a faint, disgruntled frown. “Oh God, oh shit! It feels like I’m being hate-fucked by Chris Evans’ Johnny Storm!”   


He wasn’t, of course; gradually, the pits of bubbling skin left in his body mended themselves, leaving his suit to be the only thing in dire need of a repair. Clint watched as Wade gingerly prodded the shallow cavities in his body left by the scorching heat, before slowly trudging out of the searing flames. His head snapped up, and he glanced in the inquisitive Avenger’s direction whilst briskly brushing the remaining flames and embers off of himself.   


‘You can put it back in.’   


As Wade swiftly signed the phrase to his counterpart, his head jerked back twofold to glare at their oncoming attackers, who were approaching by foot at an alarming rate. Without missing a beat, Clint jabbed the hearing aid back in his ear with a few of his fingers, ignored the initial shrieks of feedback coming from the device, and nocked his bow with an exploding arrow.   


As the arrow flew through the air, a few alarmed cries rung out before being overtaken by a smaller, yet equally harsh flare-up of flames. At this point, police cars were speeding toward the area in which all the commotion occurred.   


“You are _literally_ fighting fire with fire right now, shitlips!” Wade coughed, which was met by a roll of Clint’s eyes. Both men attempted to peer over at the group of people they had presumably just exploded, but to little benefit; nothing could be seen past the blanket of orange and red flickering endlessly in contrast to the star-speckled, black sky.   


“We need to leave!” Clint shouted in return over the increasingly ear-piercing shriek of oncoming police vehicles. “I don’t think the cops’ll take ‘we’re superheroes’ as an excuse!”   


And so, through willpower and determination and a bunch of other cheesy shit alone, the two aimlessly bolted away from the scene with reckless abandon.


End file.
